Help
by AViewerLikeMe
Summary: "Hold me. . .like you did by the lake on Naboo. . .so long ago when there was nothing but our love ... No politics, no plotting, no war." Yeah, NO. This is not the time to be held. This is the time to help. An AU ROTS Oneshot rewriting the argument between Padmé and Anakin.


Disclaimer: It all belongs to GL. Lyrics are from "Frozen" by Madonna. I had a few songs in rotation writing this story, but Frozen captures the essence the most.

 **Help**

 _ø_

 _You only see what your eyes want to see_

 _How can life be what you want it to be_

 _You're frozen, when your heart's not open_

 _You're so consumed with how much you get_

 _You waste your time with hate and regret_

 _You're broken, when your heart's not open_

 _ø_

 _"Have you ever considered that we may be on the wrong side?"_

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"What if the democracy we thought we were serving no longer exists, and the Republic has become the very evil we have been fighting to destroy? "_

 _"I don't believe that. And you're sounding like a Separatist!"_

 _"This war represents a failure to listen. Now, you're closer to the Chancellor than anyone. Please, ask him to stop the fighting and let diplomacy resume."_

 _"Don't ask me to do that. Make a motion in the Senate, where that kind of a request belongs."_

 _"What is it?"_

 _"Nothing."_

 _"Don't do this. Don't shut me out. Let me help you."_

 _…_ _._

And from here, the fall is imminent. The fall from grace to vulgarity, from hope to loss, from great peace to great danger, fast-spreading like fire on oil.

Although, now she comes to think of it, it's been false sense of peace. Whatever rose garden she's envisioned them frolicking in for the past three years is just that-a vision. They had been innocent once. The thrill of secrecy, the confidence in their forbidden nature blinded them. Their stolen moments against the backdrop of war have done more than given them peace: it has created an illusion of marriage that just _isn't._ How else can she explain the rift between them now, with so much baggage on both sides and no experience in sifting through it?

With a sense of helplessness comes the realization that Padmé does not know how to help Anakin. For all she has come to know about him, as long as she's known him, breaking down the walls around his heart is a skill she hasn't mastered. This has finally put them at risk of falling, past love, past hope, into oblivion. And from here, the fall is imminent.

Unless he _lets her help him._

In his silence, she gathers her strength, looks him square in the eye and says, "Threepio!"

Robotic footsteps appear from her right. "Oh-yes-what can I do for you,Milady?"

"Have all our meeting and appointments cancelled for today, please."

Threepio sounds as shocked as Anakin suddenly looks. "Oh-well-what shall I tell them in the reason?"

"Call in sick," she answers determinedly, never leaving her husband's confused stare. "And have all incoming calls go straight to mailbox. I don't want any interruptions tonight."

As a flustered Threepio waddles away, Anakin is frowning at his wife, his hands still caressing her elbows. "What are you doing?" he demands, his eyebrows connecting.

Padmé takes a deep breath. "I'm helping you. I'm going to help you. And us." Her resolve solidifies against his murmured protests. "And we're not going anywhere until we're done."

….

This day should be marked in history as the first time Anakin is truly angry with his wife.

He is overworked and under appreciated. He is angry with everyone and trusting of few. He is fighting a war that has taken from him emotionally and physically. He has the impending demise of his wife and/or child looming over his head every moment. The world is complicated and destructive, and now the one woman he expects to bring him peace is making it worse.

Since when does _talking_ every sort things out? If it did, the War would never have begun. Talking is just arguing. And lying. And insulting. It only ever leads to fighting. The last person Anakin wants to fight is his wife.

"What do you mean, help _us?"_ he asks her angrily. "Since when did we need help?"

"Since you decided for us," she counters, already throwing her outer-cloak on the couch. "I'm not going to stand around and watch you deal with everything yourself just because you think you can."

"There is _nothing_ to deal with!" He lies testily. Then his ego speaks up for him. "What, do you think I can't deal with it myself? Is that it? You think I'm _weak_ like they do?"

Padmé scoffs. "Who is _they?_ The Council? You're going to lump me in with them now?"

"Well, apparently you don't trust me to take care of things!" he shoots back, following her deeper into her home.

"This isn't about trusting you-" she stops herself, laughing helplessly. "No, it _is_ about trust, isn't it? It's about the simple fact that _you_ don't trust _me."_

"How can you say that?" It's a sincere question; despite hiding pieces of his soul from her wandering eyes (his mission ever since Tatooine), the rest of him is laid bare at her feet. Is that not trust? The brittle layers are meant to be kept in the shadows, to make room for the softer ones. If you don't hide the right things from your lover, you can't truly be in love; why would you risk bringing them pain?

Padmé is removing her hair from its carefully structured style, throwing her head band on the kitchen counter. She has never been this careless with her clothes or accessories.

"I can say it," she responds unevenly, kicking her shoes off, "because it's true. After three years of marriage you refuse to share yourself with me."

"That's not fair," he seethes, feeling his heart break.

She spins around her face stricken. "How many times?"

"What?"

"The _dreams,_ Anakin, how many times have you have them since that night?"

He knows he could have come up with a good enough excuse if he hadn't been so blindsided. All he can do is gape fruitlessly.

" _That's_ what's unfair," she cries. "That's the root of everything! I'm telling you now, stay here and help me help you help _us,_ or I swear. . ." her voice trails off in strangled gasp, striking fear into Anakin's heart. What she is asking of him is too great, too painful, too daunting for him to embrace so quickly. He has half a mind to hold firm in his dissent and smooth this over some other way. Ha almost wishes he could just turn on his heel and stalk out.

But the look on her face roots him to the spot. However high his anger is, he knows the moment he tries to leave, all of her will be lost to him.

So he stays.

….

She is too pregnant for this.

She is used to speaking from the pits of her stomach. She is used to standing for hours at a time, debating legislature in the Senate. Being six months pregnant takes some of the wind out of her sails, however, so she leans against the wall, or sits down, to reserve her strength for her voice, which must stay strong.

Anakin is wired, pacing back and forth, throwing his hands up, running them through his hair, never resting, not even bothering to take a seat, and all she had said was, "Why do you hate Obi-Wan?"

Yes, it's harsh and left-field, but it clearly holds weight.

"How do you say something like that?" he spits out, contorted with defensive anger and guilt.

"Why haven't you told him about us?"

"You know why!"

"You think he'll go the Council?"

"Obi-Wan is bound to the Council! He is _on_ the Council! Of course he'd tell! He's not like. . ." Anakin stops himself, looking suddenly haunted.

"Like what?"

Needless question. She knows.

"Say it."

She knows, but coming from her, he won't accept it. It has to come from him.

A few seconds later, it tumbles out of his lips, "He's not like me."

". . .Not like you." She clenches her fist against the tide of disdain on Obi-Wan's behalf. "How?"

"You know how."

"No, I don't. Enlighten me."

He growls low in his throat. "Obi-Wan doesn't take chances, or leaps of faith. He does everything by the book." He circles the couch, a whine in his voice. "Never use emotion, always play it safe, follow the code, follow the council-Force, he lives and _dies_ by the rules, Padmé! You know this!"

Padmé crosses her arms, already relishing the effect her words will cause.

"I know that he knows about us."

He doesn't freeze the way she envisioned; he _does_ stop pacing and face her, but in his wide-legged stance he starts shifting from one foot to the other. He looks like a child who's just been grounded for the first time.

With grim satisfaction, she presses on. "Every time you came back from a mission, Obi-Wan would come to see me, asking me questions about _you._ If I thought you were healthy or at peace. If I could see what he couldn't. I always ask him the same thing, but he never says a word, he never wants to be the one to tell me what _you_ should be telling me."

" _You lie."_

The snarl doesn't surprise her.

"You wish. I bet it's easier to think you're the only one who has a heart, isn't it?"

Her callousness surprises her. She must be farther past caring than she thought. "You must be blind or arrogant to not know how much he loves you."

Or maybe she knew she would have to strike hard to see that spark of breakthrough in his eyes, the kind that forces him into himself to run over every memory to confirm what anyone with _eyes_ can already see.

When he looks back at her, all he can offer is a pout and, " _Fine._ I'll tell him."

She holds in her laugh.

….

His hand feels sweaty.

This wouldn't be so disturbing if it was his _flesh_ hand. He flexes his fingers, the black leather crinkling and creasing in familiar places. To the world, his glove is rugged and unique in style, like some badge of mastery. In times when an unfeeling hand lets him strike harder at his enemies, Anakin is inclined to agree. When left alone, however, it is only a reminder of what he's lost to the war.

"Don't do that," his wife scolds from behind him.

He clenches the hand, feeling sticky and hot beneath the fabric. "Do what, Padmé?"

"Evade the subject," she says, and when he turns around, she is standing at the counter with her arms crossed, her silk dress wrinkled, her hair still mussed from tearing it out of its style. "Like it or not, it's the truth. You can't blame the Council for not trusting you when _we're_ breaking their rules."

"I'm not evading the subject," he mumbles, tugging at the leather on his hand.

"We knew exactly what we were doing," says Padmé, "we knew it was against the Jedi Code, against my own Senatorial Code-"

"It's an unfair rule, it's not rooted in reality-"

"We are right under everyone's noses, lying to their faces-"

"It wouldn't have to be that way if they just-"

"I am carrying your _child!_ The moment it gets out-"

"I am too important to this war for them to kick me out-"

"What about me?" Her voice is tight with distress, but he finds it hard to care; the glove is difficult to slip off the metal, and his efforts feel futile.

"They need US, Padmé. Stop worrying yourself into a fit."

"A fit? A _fit?"_ she repeats in a shrill voice, and Anakin has to turn away so she won't see his eyes roll. "I am _Senator_ pregnant with the child of a _Jedi Knight!_ I've been fighting for upholding the Constitution while helping _you_ break your own laws! I will be sneered out a job! And you don't want me to have a fit?" She slams her hand on the counter. "I am the only one here reacting correctly!"

"I knew the dangers involved with taking this chance," Anakin tells her through clenched teeth. "And I took it anyway. Just as you did. I'm not sorry, I don't regret it, and I don't care what the Council has to say about it."

"Then don't pretend they have a right to trust you!" Padmé shoots back, stalking up from behind. "And don't keep turning away from me!"

She comes into his line of sight, and the glove isn't coming off fast enough. "I'm not turning-"

"Every time I say something you don't like, you put your back to me-"

"It's not like that-"

"Trying to play it off or shut me out-"

"Padmé, I'm-"

"This is serious-"

"TRYING TO TAKE THIS OFF!" he bellows, shaking his gloved hand for emphasis.

In the shocked silence that follows an outburst he has never had with her before, Anakin is overcome with a wave of exhaustion. Every obstacle, every argument, every side-eye from Windu,every reprimand from Obi-Wan, every enemy slain and victim saved, the scar above his eyes, the loss of limb-it punches at his chest until he finds himself very tired. He's twenty-three and tired like a 900 year old. All his waking energy is charged at the Separatists, at ending this war. What will be left for him when it's all over?

His flesh hand loosens its grip on the leather. The leather slips right off. The crippling relief outshines his bemusement; the old and silver glints in the light like a sparkle in an eye. The feeling of being suffocated and overheated has vanished. He looks up at his still-silent wife, who is staring at the prosthetic wistfully.

"See? _Now_ talk."

She narrows her eyes, but despondence contorts the rest of her face. "Who is to blame more, Anakin? The Council for making the rules, or us for breaking them?"

His immediate choice would be the former, as he has championed thus far. What comes out of his mouth instead is, "Both."

The glove drops on the floor without a sound.

….

Not every revelation is a good one.

"You said it," Padmé says, more to herself than to Anakin, who is out breath from their latest bout of verbal sparring, this time about that wretched Chancellor and his assignment to spy on him. (She had confronted him about his refusal to see where the Council was coming from, telling him not to forget his loyalty to the Jedi, and he had hissed, "My loyalties lie with the Chancellor!" They both had frozen, with him whispering brokenly that he didn't mean it.)

"Said what?" he snaps.

" _If it works."_

"If what works?"

She shakes her head, her fingers pinching her bottom lip. "In the meadow. On Naboo. I said. . .politicians don't always agree."

The memory is vivid as if it only happened yesterday. She can feel the tickle of grass against her feet, the breeze of the air against her face.

"And you said they should be made too."

"What are you even talking about?"

How can he not remember this day? This missing puzzle piece? This foreshadowing of al to come?

"Someone _wise,"_ she forces the word out. "Like that makes a difference. . ."

"Padmé-"

"And I told you, I _said,_ 'that is a dictatorship, that is not freedom!' And you just. . .' _If it works.'"_

Padmé's little laugh is borderline hysterical. "If it works. Of course. If it works, then why not let him win, why not let him have more power, why not let him take over everything?"

Anakin is wearing a look of concern and irritation. "I don't want to take over everything-"

"Of course not you!" She cries. "Someone _wise!_ Someone powerful and wise! And who pray tell do you think is powerful and wise now?"

Anakin's eyes flash. "He's not trying to take over the Republic!"

"As if you would have a problem if he did!" She talks over him now, looking him up and down with wildly illuminated eyes. "You want the war to be over, that's all you want, by any means possible, even if one man holds the Galaxy in a stronghold! Just for it all to end! You would do anything. . ."

He steps back as suddenly as if he's been slapped. "Are you suggesting-" he swallows harshly-"-are you suggesting that _I_ would let him take over the Galaxy? Do you think so little of me?"

She regards him in his under-shirt and loose pants, searching for the slave-boy on Tattooine. "If you had a choice-between the Council and _him,_ between _Democracy_ and _him,_ what would you choose?"

She expects a silence that answers everything, that takes away her hope. Instead, with surprising swiftness, he stomps forward and grasps her forearms, gently but firmly. His eyes are shocking blue, swimming in pain and desperation.

"I will _never. Ever._ Choose _anyone._ Over _you."_

The fact that he's heard her unspoken fear makes it unbearable to keep her eyes on his, but a glimmer of hope cracks through the clouds in her heart.

"You'd better not," she mutters, "or all I've done in my life will be for nothing." Another thought pops into her head. "One more thing."

He fails to hide his tiny smile.

"When you were a slave, you didn't like Watto telling you what to do."

His smile vanishes.

"When you were a Padawan, you didn't like Obi-Wan telling you what to do. And he did it from a good place."

His lips purse.

"Why would you want the rest of the world to have a Master telling them what to do?"

Not every revelation is a bad one.

….

"You want a sandwich?"

"What?" she splutters, inciting a chuckle from him.

"I don't know how to cook, but I do know how to make a sandwich," he explains delicately, brushing hair out away from his forehead as he takes the ingredients out of the fridge. "I've learned I'm better of not cooking things, but preparing them. Do you want a sandwich?"

It doesn't matter what her response is; he's already laying out the bread slices on the chopping board, looking for a butter knife to take the sweet nut butter out. She stands up slowly from the couch, he glances up at the movement, and he decides that she's cute when she gapes.

". . .We're not finished talking yet!" she protests, pulling up a stool and propping her elbows on the counter. "And I'm not hungry."

"Sure you are," he informs her, digging the knife into the jar, "I can sense your hunger pangs from a mile away."

She's even cuter when she humphs under her breath, pouting like the fourteen year old handmaiden he once knew. Instinctively, his eyes lower to the japer snippet hanging between her breasts. In thirteen years, the wood has retained its shine and the etchings are as fresh as if they've been carved today.

"We're not really married, are we?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.

The fragile warmth in the room dissipates at once. Padmé sits up straighter in her chair, a fearful anger in her eyes. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

In most cases, Anakin withers under her glare, but right now, his thoughts are chips, falling out his mouth and landing where they may. He focuses on lathering bread with nut butter.

"Bail Organa visits Aldeeran to see his wife whenever he can. I've seen his mental shoppings lists for groceries and plans to surprise her with candlelit dinners with her favorite dessert, or gifts from Coruscant. Sometimes he comes in looking irritated, because he's had a fight with her and didn't resolve it before he left. But he always goes back and resolves it. He always has the time."

A glob of butter gets onto his thumb; he licks it off and opens the jar of jam.

"He also has the freedom to go home and do absolutely nothing with her. . .and be happy. The mundane things, the quiet, boring things, they're all made better because he's doing it with her. He's been doing it for years, Padmé. It's as natural to him as the fights are. It just-fits into his life."

He thinks his throat might go sore with all the swallowing he has to do. He doesn't dare look up at Padmé yet.

"When I married you, I just wanted to say you were mine and I was yours. I didn't think about what it meant. I didn't even know what I wanted out of. . .I just know now that I didn't expect _this_ to be it."

His wife's voice was icy and tearful. " _This?"_

"Do you realize this is the first _fight_ we've ever had?" he implores her, prolonging the spread of jam to have something to do while he confesses his heart's pain. "At least the first fight we've tried to resolve in the same day? In any other scenario, we fight and I go on mission. We make up and you go vote on a bill. We don't go out, because we can't be seen. We don't buy gifts, because gifts can be traced. We make love and tell each other the bare minimum about our lives."

He takes a slice of bread and presses down on the butter and jam, trying to real ease his frustration and failing. "And there will be no record of our love, no certificate of marriage, nothing to leave the slightest _imprint_ on the Galaxy with. All we have is this. . .'tragic' romance, in bits and pieces."

Milk. No sandwich should be eaten without milk. There's still a quarter left in the fridge.

"I love the moments we share, Padmé. I come and go with a natural high every time. But I want mundane. I want routines and dullness and dinners and a _life._ I want what Bail has. And then-" his voice catches-"And then I wonder. . .if what we have now-these stolen moments-what if we get used to them? What if that's our routine, and then one day, we can be free and open and the change just. . . _kills us?"_

It's a dirty little secret that he's never been more ashamed of than now; the conflict between wanting more and fearing more would be too much. Jedi don't have these kinds of conflicts. Jedi don't have attachments. Anakin is the worst Jedi in the Galaxy. . .and the worst husband.

When Padmé doesn't speak for a long time afterward, he glances up. She is sitting with her hands folded in prayer over her lips, her eyes red-rimmed and shining. He keeps hurting her. He'll never stop. She must hate him by now.

No. If he just looks a little harder, senses a little deeper, he can feel her love, her compassion, her understanding. As if he has not been alone in his wrestling match with demons.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks him gently, gesturing to the food.

He feels his eyes sting and looks down at his hands to blink it away. "We don't get these moments, Padmé. Not like the others." With a smooth slice, the bread is evenly cut down the middle. He picks up one half and offers it to her. "Sandwich?"

….

Threepio hobbles in to remind Padmé that she has an early meeting set up with, "The others" and should get to bed as soon as possible. "Why, the sun will be up in no less than six hours, Milady!" She thanks the droid to his face and inwardly curses his timing as he hurries away. She hopes against hope that her husband, who is in the bedroom preparing for a shower, didn't hear the exchange.

But of course, her husband is standing there with a towel wrapped firmly around his waist and an expression of bewildered suspicion.

"Who are the others?"

She used to like how deep his voice could get in his moods, until they were directed at her. With great effort, she squashes the urge to lie inside of her.

"I'm meeting with a trusted handful of Senators to discuss important matters."

"What important matters?"

 _You can't ask him for unreciprocated honesty._

"Are you aware of the new bill making its way through the Senate?" She brushes past him, combing through her hair with her fingers. "It's a new proposal to amend the Constitution. It would grant the Chancellor the power to execute suspects or prisoners without a trial, if he deems there to be enough evidence of treachery." The sharp intake of breath from him gives her grim satisfaction. "The general public is scared and paranoid. No one knows who to trust. Muggings are breaking out through Coruscant, over mere suspicions of Separatist involvement, even over disagreement with the actions of the Republic. With this amendment, it will only get worse. Everyone will feel justified in their rash violence. Anyone speaking against it will be an enemy. Punishable by death."

Her heartbeat is racing at the thought of what could happen to her friends, her colleagues, _herself,_ if the events she fears come to pass. Her stomach lurches.

Anakin's voice, uncertain, fills the room. "I doubt it will go through."

"It _cannot_ go through, Anakin." She faces him with trembling lips. "It is a legal excuse for vengeance."

"I know."

"The moment it passes, my Republic will be lost to me."

"I know."

"Our freedom, our liberty, everything _gone."_

 _"I know."_

Does he know? Padmé wonders hopelessly, staring at his composed face, willing it to break for someone else's pain other than his. Does he understand the chaos that will reign when citizens act as judge, juror and executioner? Does he realize the magnitude of what such bloodlust will do to the Galaxy? The blind rage and thirst for revenge that they will give themselves over to? Just like how he did on T-

The sharp twitch in her husband's right eye tells her that, despite all the times she'd told him not to, he has been listening in on her thoughts. With a thrill of horror, she realizes that it has been three years, six months and five days since the events on Tatooine and neither of them had _ever_ brought it up before. Fear trickles down her neck like ice water as she sinks down onto the bed in silence.

She counts sixty-five second before he speaks.

"I was waiting for it." The tone is even at first glance, but broken emotions are raging under the surface. "I've been waiting. . .all this time, and we never said anything about it. I never thought I'd say it first. I always thought it'd be you. To bring it up every time I get angry, or. . ."

The nerve of him to think so lowly of her that she'd. . .

"Or even just think about it. I was bracing for it, all this time. Hoping for it." His tone and expression still hasn't changed. "Wishing for the day you did bring it up, so I could finally find out why."

Why? What what?

"Why you don't hate me for what I did." He moves sluggishly toward the fresher, like the mass of the Galaxy weighs him down. "Why you aren't afraid of me, or disgusted with me. You have a right to be. I already am with myself." An almost imperceptive shudder ripples through his back. "I killed them all, Padmé.And I felt nothing for them when I did it. Unarmed children. _Nothing."_

The towel falls from his waist at the same time the shower head turns on. Padmé notices she's followed him into the fresher, hovering like a ghost, feeling just as transparent. He steps into the glass cubicle stiffly.

"I killed Dooku when I'd already won the fight. I've done nothing but kill in this war. The only difference is I'm killing on someone else's behalf. Does that make it better? Does that makes me less of a monster?" An empty chuckle. "Is that all it takes? A difference in motive?"

She doesn't speak, but she can't hide her heart's answer. Which he hears.

"Of course. There's no 'better' in war. Murder is murder. It is monstrous by its very nature. You've known that all along. I just learned too late." The water soaks his hair clinging to his face; he doesn't move to push it back. "What shall I do then? With all this. . .inside of me. What good am I to anyone? What good am I. . .to you?"

She's waited long enough. Padmé sobs in a short breath and sheds her own attire, hurrying in after her husband. The scars on his back are pink and jagged, varying in depth and length. Maybe they're the price he pays for the lives he's taken. Maybe he made a deal with Fate to take scraps of flesh in for every body he strikes down. How far can he go before all that's left to barter is his soul?

Wrapping her arms around him, she presses her palm to where the gentle thump of his heart resides. Her cheek against the dip of his shoulder blades, her heaving with the effort to control her emotions, Padmé answers into his skin.

"You are all the good I have in this monstrous world. You _will_ fight the demons within, I know it."

He doesn't answer, but his hand comes up to cover hers.

"But you can't fight them alone, Ani. If you keep trying, you will keep falling." The shower water streams down her cheeks like tears. "If you give in to the evil, you will be worse than dead. And I can't lose you, Anakin, I just _can't."_

He turns around slowly, keeping her hand over his heart. She very nearly falls apart at the sight of his blue eyes; they have never looked so faded, so hollow.

"Promise me, Anakin," Padmé whimpers, using her free hand to cup his cheek. "Promise me you'll fight. Promise me you'll never give in. . .and make me lose you. Please, Ani!"

The water is making it hard to see. She has to blink a hundred times before she can get a good look at her beautiful, broken husband, who looks as desperate as she feels.

"I will try," he murmurs, gifting her a miracle.

….

 _You're going to die, aren't you?_

Thank the Force Padmé can't read his mind. The soapy loofah would drop from her hands and her eyes would widen and she'd grab him by the face to tell him _again_ that _no,_ she is _not_ going to die in childbirth, that dreams are just dreams and he must let this one go.

It's not the dreams he's thinking of, however.

 _You're going to die, aren't you?_

His first encounter with Padmé, at nine years old, was in the middle of her stark defense of Naboo. She had led men into the line of fire, knowing the risk to her life and going headfirst with a blaster and a very good aim. Ten years later, he was reunited with her through assassination attempts on her life, over a single _vote._ He was supposed to protect her. It wasn't until Geonosis that he was reminded how well she could protect herself. Three years later, she is still protecting herself, still taking risks with her life for the good of the Galaxy, and still a very good aim.

All that has changed is the child.

 _You could have died all those times, but you lived._

She lifts her heel off the floor to reach his hair, massaging the dirt and sweat out of his scalp. He holds her in place by the waist.

This is the first time they've showered together. A simple routine act in life shared with the complex, unconventional woman he loves. He's been scrubbed pink from head to toe, and he still feels dirty. The monster inside has merely been wounded, not destroyed. To defeat it will take more time than he can afford. This hours-long confession he's partaken in tonight is not enough. Meditation could possibly further the process, but true healing won't come for him until the battles and nightmares and conflicts are over. It's a request the Galaxy can't fulfill.

 _You're going to die. One way or another, you're going to die._

And what is he going to do when she does? He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to imagine a repeat of the Sand People with a higher death count. He wants so badly to feel redeemed by her love for him, just enough to keep his grief to himself. When he doubts even that vision, he realizes what it means to fail one's own self.

 _We're both going to die. . .but if you die before me. . ._

"Padmé?"

"Hm?"

"How do you cope?"

"With what?"

He takes a deep breath, watching her face intently. "You know what I do out there. You know the danger. You know the risk. Every time I leave, I might not come back."

His wife, always full of surprises, does not crumple or shudder at his words. On the contrary, her face is set in the kind of determined expression Obi-Wan wears before igniting his lightsaber.

"We have been very lucky, Ani," she informs him evenly. "Where many others have fallen, _you_ have risen higher. You and Obi-Wan have always defied the odds together. My own feelings aside, I am always confident that you will come back to me."

"But I might not."

She squints her eyes at him. "No," she agrees. "You might not."

"How do you live with that?"

A tight smile pulls her lips back. "Hope. Blindingly strong hope."

Anakin knows of Hope. He had hope on Tatooine as a boy. He had hope during the pod race. He had hope meeting Padmé. But everywhere else he hoped, he'd been sorely let down, until the emotion feels foreign to the touch.

"And if I die. . ."

She lowers her heels and grips his arms gently. "Then I will have had three years with the man I love. It would break my heart, but I would live, for you. I know you'd want me to be happy, so I would do my best. And don't forget, Ani," she adds softy, caressing the swell of her belly, "I already have a piece of you with me. No matter where you go, or what happens, all I would need to do is look into my baby's eyes and find you."

He gathers enough strength to speak in a low gruff voice, terrified of losing it. "You make it sound so easy. So beautiful."

"Oh, it would never be easy." Her hands are back in his hair. "But it would be beautiful, one day." She tile his head back, towards the shower head. "Rinse."

He wishes he could share in her serenity, but all he's sure of, after this conversation, is that she is going to die. Through childbirth or murder or illness of old age. _And I'm going to have to live, and let go._

…

"I think," he murmurs, at the edge of their bed, "I should stay until the war is over."

"What do you mean?" Padmé is at the closet, holding her nightgown to her bare chest.

"Then after," he continues, "I'm going to go before the Council. . .and tell them everything."

The silence presses in on her ears, the nightgown almost slipping through her slackened fingers. "T-tell them-?"

"About my mother. About the dreams and. . .what happened. Everything that happened." He takes a breath that sounds like a sob. "About Dooku. And us. About us. I can't-I thought I could do it all alone, I really did, but I just. . ."

She is rooted to the spot, terrified of approaching him or trying to coax his words out when he is reaching such an epiphany.

". . .I can't keep hiding anymore. I can't keep lying to them. To Obi-Wan. . ." he finished thickly, with his head in his hands and his back trembling. "I'm so sorry. . ."

 _Sorry?_ The word her husband uses too much in the wrong times and not enough when it's needed the most. She numbly wonders what "Sorry" has to do with anything when she realizes what he is actually apologizing for.

"No." She surprises herself with the steadiness of her voice. "No. No 'Sorry.' I am so proud of you." And because she fears it won't be enough, she says it again. "I am _so. Proud._ Of _you_."

He twists around to gaze at her with all the world in his eyes, his close-lipped smile a beacon of light, and she knows she's said the right thing.

"That's your favorite one," he observes in a low voice. Her fingers grip the nightgown with renewed vigor, having almost forgotten their purpose.

When Anakin stands up and moves in front of her, dressed only in black pajama pants, Padmé feels a blush spread like wildfire through every inch of her skin. He takes the gown from her hands, bunches it up until he has the hem, and holds it up to her expectantly. Her blush deepens, but she raises her arms above her head.

As he slips the fabric over her head, his fingers follow the hem down past her bosom, over the swell of her belly, over her thighs, her calves, stopping just below her ankle. He's kneeling on the floor and looking up at her, still blushing furiously, and he caresses her silhouette through her gown on an upward path to her stomach, where he pauses to kiss her.

She wants to cry by the time he is standing upright again, but he is shedding enough tears for the both of them. Instead, she lets him rest his forehead against hers, lifting her chin up to capture her mouth in his, hands worshipping the exposed skin of her back. It is almost like their time by the lake in Naboo, with beginnings and romance and excitement.

Except it's _not_ Naboo. It's Coruscant, with marriage and heavy lifting and hope. It's better, so much better.

….

 _"Morning."_

 _". . .Have you been awake this whole time?"_

 _"Couldn't sleep. Didn't want to."_

 _"What's wrong? Is it the nightmares?"_

 _". . .I never appreciated this view before."_

 _"The view?"_

 _"Look at it, Padmé. You have a front row seat to the horizon."_

 _". . ."_

 _"The sky, the city, the sunrise. This priceless beauty in the face of all this war. And I get to share it with you."_

 _". . .Yes. You do. I'll leave you to it-"_

 _"Wait. Stay with me? For a moment? I know you have plans, but-"_

 _"Oh, be quiet and hold me."_

…

And from here, the rise is visible. The rise from delusions of security, to actual security. From barriers to open fields. He and she have not just been helped; they have been saved.

The sun is rising, his arms are warming, her caresses of his cheek are soothing.

They will be all right, she thinks.

She hopes.

ø

A/N: This was a scene in ROTS that I never quite understood. The two of them have an argument, Padmé senses something else is wrong, asks him to let her help him, and then two seconds later asks him to hold her like nothing is wrong. It's a terribly wasted opportunity to alter their fate, and I wish I knew why, _why_ it went like that, when it shouldn't have. So I took it upon myself to rewrite it. I hope you enjoyed it. I welcome all feedback. It nourishes my skill and it feeds my soul. :)


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